The New Zealand Government wants to put an end to tax-free trading online.

Hitherto Kiwis have been able to purchase goods from the Internet cheaper than they would in store for the primary reason that they were shirking Goods and Services Tax.

That’s fifteen percent these online fiends have been getting off their purchase prices for nothing more than sitting in front of their little magic boxes and avoiding contact with the outside world while, like an idiot, here’s me still frequenting the physicality of shops, paying fifteen percent extra and, heaven forbid, dealing with real people.

I found it comical to see the reaction of one young man who in fact looked as though he hadn’t left the safety of his computer screen in months; on hearing that GST was going to be added to online purchases he responded along the lines of: “…why are we being punished for not buying domestically?”

Oi, dickhead, you’re not being punished – although now I consider it, you just implied that you were spending your money at online businesses abroad where you would previously have been supporting your local suppliers so perhaps you ought to be but no, you’re not being punished as such – you are simply going to be brought back to Earth like the rest of us old-schoolers where you will be required to pay tax on your series of banal purchases which in fairness you wouldn’t have bothered buying if you had no Internet connection anyway; really your behaviour is indicative of someone with too much money on their hands to begin with thus minor taxation will surely not be a bad thing.

The majority of these online purchasers appear to be living the New Zealand dream – working jobs they don’t like then squandering their money buying shit they don’t need.

I for one am pleased that taxation will eventually be introduced to online trading in New Zealand; it might just take a while to set up.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ben Al Per Chaser

Photography by Jay S Tay

There has been much talk of late about ‘Good Samaritans’; recently a team of these wonderful people lifted a car off a Kiwi woman in England…

It was amazing; this woman had been knocked down by a London cab and medics were unable to extricate her from beneath the car’s wheels, so a group of citizens actually lifted the vehicle off her.

…Funny though, good as this was, I’ve never heard anything about ‘Bad’ Samaritans; people who help another then leave without saying goodbye, or perhaps help them then make light of their predicament or something.

This leads me to wonder, do Bad Samaritans even exist and if not, why the hell do we bother qualifying Samaritans with the ‘Good’ label?

By definition, a Samaritan is a kind or helpful person. The term ‘Samaritan’ originates from biblical times and the story of a man from ancient Samaria who helped a man in need after this man was bypassed by others.

A Samaritan is therefore a kind person; a good person. It is only through our ridiculous modern desire, or perhaps exhausted brain function, to mimic the speech patterns of other people because it’s so much easier than contriving our own, irrespective of how stupid or asinine the resulting phrasing sounds that the prefix ‘Good’ has been added. It’s like the word ‘rarely’. Most people struggle to use this word without preceding it with ‘very’, thus ‘very rarely’. What about ‘overweight’? Nobody casually refers to an emaciated person as ‘underweight’, yet an obese person is unthinkingly called ‘overweight’. Logically, given that their size is what we see we should be calling them ‘large’, but because ‘overweight’ is currently the fashionable term, also because that’s what everybody else says, that’s what we say.

Here’s an idea the people of New Zealand might like to entertain: instead of speaking in your uninspired jumble of clichés, idioms or other television-gleaned, hackneyed phrases, try thinking for yourself – think outside the … perimeter.

You don’t have to repeat something just because that was the way you last heard or saw it said or done. Reminiscent of the way Quade Cooper was treated as he ran from the field in the weekend’s Bledisloe Cup match; I guarantee nobody even remembers why they despise Quade Cooper – sure, he collared Aaron Smith in that match, but so what? It’s rugby – yet as typical Kiwis we’re still acting like immature little piss-ants just because that’s what our buddies are doing.

Back on task. ‘Rarely’ can be used without ‘very’. Numbers can be verbalised without being preceded with ‘like’. ‘Little’ can also be used without being preceded by ‘very’ and for Christ’s sake, ‘Samaritan’ should be used alone.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Mia God

Photography by Fris Traded

Those oxymoronic protesters are at it again – unsettling the lives of innocent bystanders just to have their own selfish opinions heard.

They chose a Saturday this time to vent their collective displeasure at the nation – on a topic which I refuse to name lest those pillocks gain further publicity on the matter – I guess so there wasn’t any conflict between protesters and the scintillating careers they all hold down…

The most frustrating thing about a throng of idiot idealists running around a Christchurch shopping mall with their homemade banners and their ‘I know better than the nation’s qualified Government figures so you better shut the hell up and listen to me or else’ dispositions, was that I could guarantee a large number of them had little to no understanding of the issue they were even protesting.

…Half these people it appeared, had simply jumped on board the acrimony bandwagon brandishing flashy mottos, half-arsed catchphrases and the like, screaming about putting an end to something that has for years been a vital part of the nation’s existence but on account of it only recently becoming a feature of the public eye, is now seen by those people with limited understanding of everything modern world, as being tantamount to the Devil’s work.

I saw one of the silly women involved, possibly the protesting ringleader, complaining about “…the obnoxious New Zealand Government…”, “…the obnoxious Christchurch weather…”; obnoxious this and obnoxious that as though it was the world’s fault that stick she had firmly shoved up her arse was so uncomfortable – all while her and her team of suggestible cronies held up traffic, disrupted people’s plans and made general nuisances of themselves, in a genuinely obnoxious fashion.

They claim it was a ‘Peaceful Protest’. Hah; like I said, oxymoronic. I wonder how peaceful it was for the lives of the unrelated motorists they drew into their immature little game and made late for important appointments; how peaceful it was for every other unrelated life rendered a shambles that day because one group of moronic grown-ups wanted to throw a tantrum about something of which they had little comprehension in the first place.

These people need to understand that their consternation does not warrant a nationwide uproar.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Grough Upp

Photography by T Anne-Trim

Although I’ve never met him, I have heard that he’s quite the angry little Spaniard.

The insidious weather phenomenon predicted to befall New Zealand in the coming months, characterised by strong winds, severe deluges, prolonged drought and all around unruly weather, has been termed by meteorologists as the ‘El Nino’ effect…

Oh yes, he has been here before but this time, reportedly, he appears more pissed off than ever.

…Which given that much of Canterbury’s northern farming regions are still stricken by the drought resulting from last summer’s remarkable shortage of rainfall, similar to the US state of California, if this El Nino effect does result in the further abstinence of moisture, the whole of North Canterbury could easily end up a desert wasteland.

El Nino’s equally destructive counterpart, La Nina, who by all accounts is quite the tempestuous little maelstrom, in fact only departed New Zealand’s shores in recent years and while the El Nino effect is ultimately caused by high pressure thus warmer than usual temperatures at the Earth’s equator, La Nina is a result of basically the opposite equatorial weather pattern – not that it means she is any less bitchy than he.

The common question then will no doubt be: is this a further result of climate change?

My response: if it is, what the hell are you going to do about it?

Ultimately, New Zealand is in for some interesting weather over the next while. Strap in and enjoy the ride.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Wes Zuhr Cycle

Photography by Anne Grey Latina

Back when I was a snot-nosed little kid I recall asking a female grown-up: “How come husbands are always older than wives?”…

In reality husbands aren’t always older than wives yet somehow my timid little seven-or-eight-year-old mind had picked up on the pattern of males generally being older than their female nuptial counterparts.

…I recall the response being laconic: “Because women mature faster than men.”

Now thirty-two years old I have retained this, approximately twenty-four-year-old, sapient pearl. I have retained furthermore, images of twelve or thirteen years on from that moment, as a twenty-year-old still-aspiring diesel mechanic, looking about myself at my cohort of similarly young men and women, some in training for, some having already secured, and others keen for as long as possible to shirk, entry to the workforce. The latter group – adorned in their grey-marl sweat-pants and their Kahlua-stained singlet-tops, smoking their roll-your-own cigarettes and drinking their cheap cask-wine, subsisting with their egregious eating-habits and packed into their filthiest of flats along with their intermittent utility support; all in an attempt to eke out as much of the hedonism of youth as they possibly could – at the age of eighteen had been quick to jump on board the dole-train.

Also retained from my time as a twenty-year-old aspiring diesel mechanic are images of my sitting before an official-looking lady at the bank along with the signing of legal documentation which would in the coming days, seal ownership of my first home.

I have retained additionally, perhaps pointlessly, the many reaction shots from contemporaries who at that time, were struggling to fathom such a move from one so young. Given that my female to male ‘contemporary’ ratio at the time measured an alarming 4:1, also that I tended to mix with a clique several years older than myself, the majority of these unfathoming queries came from young women two or three years older than I was at the time.

“Why would you want to tie yourself down with buying a house now?” was the most common question I faced…

Incidentally, since that ‘approximately twenty-four-year-old sapient pearl’, other than my elder sister, I’ve known no females who have made such a bold solo purchase; in fact all I have seen is young women who seem content to float from male-occupied accommodation to male-occupied accommodation.

“…I don’t see it so much as ‘tying myself down’,” was my typical response, “as I do, getting ahead.”

“But it’s such a burden,” I recall one particular questioner’s comment, “like, don’t you want freedom?”

“I still have freedom,” I countered, “how is me paying for my house any more constricting than you paying for your shitty little flat?”

“I dunno, I guess, it just seems like, I dunno, like, a mortgage just seems more serious…”

That was at the age of twenty. While I watched silly girls and idiot boys waste their money on pointless enterprises, I paid a mortgage. While I watched silly girls and idiot boys tell lies to each other to get what they desired, I made legally binding agreements. While I watched silly girls and idiot boys spend their weekends tending to meaningless relationships, I put effort into landscaping my property. While I watched silly girls and idiot boys considering that they just might have found true love and deciding to test it through their first of what would turn out to be many garish weddings…

I don’t know, I guess I was out cycling or something.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Sally Gehrl

Photography by Idjut Boyce

Prime Minister John Key is keen to see New Zealand bars’ opening hours extended during the impending 2015 Rugby World Cup.

Initially the Greens Party was against the idea because as we all know the Greens have always been against the promotion of change, particularly if there’s a danger of that change resulting in somebody’s good time.

Good old National though, they want to see that every Kiwi has the chance to view every World Cup match from the dank surrounds of their local bar while pushing excess blood-alcohol and nibbling on meat pies.

Now seemingly the Greens have – at risk of appearing unpopular – performed a quick about turn on the matter; now they’re all for late-night/early-morning boozing.

Imagine it – up in the morning, quick shower, shave, teeth brush, then rushing to the nearest sports bar by seven, sipping your first beer ten minutes later, hooking into a mince and cheese pie breakfast – oh wow, it’s gonna be great.

Yeah but, I thought the whole reason for restricting the hours bars could legally be open was to reduce the incidence of drunken violence, vandalism and all around uncivilised behaviour on New Zealand streets after dark..?

It was, sure, but it’s only gonna be for a couple of months, so it won’t really matter.

I see, so for a couple of months the nation will be essentially impervious to the idiocy, violence and the criminal activity inspired by late night alcohol consumption..?

Well yeah, oh, nah but, you know…

Or for those few months have the nation’s recidivist binge drinkers promised to curb their reckless behaviour, thereby ensuring a safe late-night environment for all?

Well, they might have…

Oh I see, or perhaps for the duration of the World Cup the nation’s younger drinkers who have yet to develop the tolerance which would allow them to party all night and into the next day, have agreed to ease back on their alcohol intake..?

Shit I dunno – leave me alone, it’s wasn’t my idea.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Leah T Knight

Photography by Shan Nan Higgins

On two past occasions I recall being taken for an idiot by Christchurch tradesmen.

This week’s ‘Theory’ therefore pertains to the erroneous belief that the ‘Tradesman’ tag also suggests ‘Trustworthy’.

Whether they’re Qualified Master Builders, Plumbers, Mechanics, or otherwise seems to make little difference; if the unscrupulous tradesman sees the potential to make some extra coin…

The first instance relates to the first time I had my car’s automatic transmission properly serviced. It was on returning to pay the bill at this ‘reputable’ Auto Trans Repair shop that the mechanic adopted a forlorn expression and informed me, “Yeah, sorry dude, your auto’s makin’ metal – looks like it’s run a bearing or something.”

…That is what the unscrupulous tradesman will do. I should advise readers at this point that I had recently purchased the vehicle in question and had previously mentioned to the guy that I was having the work done primarily to find out if there were any mechanical concerns, malfunctions or anomalies, where I would report back to the car yard and see that they funded the repairs, under the Fair Trading Act 1987, clause 4, paragraph 6.

Given the temptation I had put before him I half expected the mechanic to say something of the aforementioned nature; I then intended to hear out his explanation and make my own judgement regarding the necessity of his claim.

As it turned out that was exactly how it happened: I listened as he spun a yarn about the ‘uneven shift pattern’ of my gearbox relating somehow to this ‘spun bearing’ hence the apparent excess of metal shavings uncovered in the transmission sump. Truth be told I was quite aware of an uneven shift pattern between the second and third gears of the four speed box; I was aware furthermore that this was an issue that could be rectified with a simple transmission band adjustment. As for the metal shavings in the sump: it’s a gearbox. Any gearbox makes metal.

Despite this ‘Transmission Specialist’s’ warnings about inevitable failure should I not have the issue immediately remedied, I’ve since done over 100,000 kilometres on that ‘spun bearing’ without incident.

The second such theory of unscrupulous tradesmen relates to my hot water cylinder which is situated outdoors in a purpose-built shed, stuffed with Pink Batts for insulation. One day the hot water, fast as it could be heated, was gushing from the overflow pipe. Seeing the need for a valve replacement, I naturally called a plumber. He arrived, I showed him the fault, mumbled my theory; he nodded comprehension and started work. Half an hour later he was done.

I recall before he left inquiring as to exactly which valve had needed replacing and he reporting that yes, my supposition had in fact been correct; it was just a faulty overflow valve. I recall expressing my gratitude, saying in a relieved gush of extraneous information how I’d only a few years back paid over $300 for a replacement tempering valve; I recall him chuckling and commenting how ‘I got off light’ and how, ‘they’re a lot more than that now’…

I received a phone call some weeks later from that very plumbing company informing me that ‘the tradesman who had recently carried out the repair at my property had written a comment on the sheet under my name’ – which the clerk was supposedly just getting around to filing. Apparently ‘I now had a leaking tempering valve’ in my hot water cylinder shed which was ‘leaking water on the floor’. The man went on to say that ‘while it didn’t sound urgent, should he just go ahead and book me in for a tempering valve replacement in the coming weeks?’

I recall feeling terribly confused – was someone playing a potentially expensive joke on me? I recall declining the kind man’s offer to stitch me up for another repair job, and instead went out to the hot water cylinder to see for myself the extent of this ‘leaking valve’. On unscrewing the little shed’s back wall I saw that yes, the plywood floor was indeed wet. Standing up I took some time in locating the tempering valve – with which over the years I had become familiar – near the top of the cylinder; imagine my surprise to find it totally dry. I then pulled out some Pink Batts and traced the pipes to the bottom. They were all dry. I pulled out more Batts and set about locating this water leak, wherever it was.

Eventually, after dislodging most of the insulation, right at the bottom of the cylinder I found a large brass nut with tepid water seeping from around its join. I straightened posture and stood back, looking up at the tempering valve; then down to the leaking join. I estimated the nut’s size as 27 millimetre and ran away to fetch that spanner from my toolbox. Returning to the leaking nut I hesitated, aware of how temperamental brass fittings can be; what if it was cross-threaded – what if it wasn’t but my intervention somehow stripped the thread?

Self doubts notwithstanding, I locked the open-ended spanner in place and gave it a tentative pull in the clockwise direction. To my sheer delight and utter surprise, it shifted. (At this point it should be noted, the feel of a nut moving on intact thread as opposed to a nut slipping over stripped thread is easily distinguishable; this nut was tightening.) I gave it another tug; it tightened more. I gave the spanner one last tweak and removed it. I had potentially just saved myself ‘a lot more than’ $300.

I left the back off the shed to oversee progress; the weather at the time was warm nor’ west so I knew if I had fixed the problem, that floor would soon be dry.

In three days’ time that’s exactly what it was, too.

My theory on duplicitous tradesmen who think they can push around people they perceive to be either weak or stupid, has left me deeply cynical; I sympathise with those poor folk who perhaps aren’t so astute or simply don’t have the knowledge to see through the unscrupulous tradesman’s tale of deceit…

Because it’s shit.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ian Scroop Ulysses

Photography by Trey D Mann

Two-year-old baby boy, William Burton has been left deaf, blind, and brain damaged after suffering an undiagnosed case of meningitis.

Wellington Hospital staff have understandably come under heavy criticism for this apparent lapse in diagnostic care.

Makes me wonder if people ever stop to consider the massive amount of care these facilities are obliged to undertake every day. The case of William Burton is a tragedy, about that there is no doubt; but what about all the cases of deadly illness they do diagnose – the countless lives they do save.

The question was long ago raised regarding adequate funding of New Zealand’s Public Health sector; take into account the frequency of serious illness – including paediatrics – that is pushed through public hospitals on a daily basis and one might not be so surprised that a single case of meningococcal is overlooked…

Going back a few years the same kind of oversight took place at Christchurch Public Hospital; a ‘misdiagnosis’ resulted in the death of my best friend. This twenty-five-year-old, giant of a man was suffering excruciating back pain. Doctors were quick to pass it off as a slipped disc, gave him painkillers and sent him away. A simple blood test would have diagnosed the presence of spinal sepsis, but as is typical of a public hospital, they were overrun and presumably, understaffed.

…I soon learned it is unreasonable to blame the hospital for such a mishap. Many inflammatory words were thrown around at the time of my friend’s death – negligence, incompetence, misdiagnosis – as I am certain William’s parents are doing. It doesn’t make a difference. Accept that this is a terrible tragedy for all involved and leave it at that.

Since Dean’s death in April 2007 I have come to realise that as much faith as we place in the doctors and nurses of New Zealand’s Public Health sector, as much reliance and expectation as we load onto their shoulders, these people are only human.

They do so much good for the nation that I think it’s unfair to blame them for the miniscule amount of bad that sometimes befalls them.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by William Burton

Photography by Rip Dean Carroll

There’s nothing us Kiwis love more than bragging about how humble we are.

“Oh, she’ll be right, heh heh, bit o’ the ol’ Kiwi ingenuity, you know, that number eight wire mentality, heh heh, that’s how we Kiwis roll you know, no big deal…”

For the record, your beloved ‘number eight wire’ hasn’t been in usage for the better part of half a century and my God, have you ever tried working with the shit? It is the thickest, stiffest, most awful fencing component there is, was or ever has been; sensible people long ago dropped it for ten, or in some cases, twelve gauge, much more pliable and indeed practical alternative.

Please, don’t misunderstand me, I am a proud Kiwi but the shit some of us say, the claims we make are just unbelievable. Kiwifruit..? You mean the Chinese gooseberry, and what of all this crap about (cue violins) Australia stealing all our stuff? The band Crowded House is composed of New Zealanders and Australians; ownership is therefore divided. Same can be said for Split Enz, Dragon, and in fact many classic ‘Kiwi’ bands. Hell, a few years back we claimed the band I Am Giant as our own, despite the only Kiwi tie at the time being the drummer, Sheldon Woolright; on top of that, going back a few years was the amazing ‘Kiwi’ band Atlas, which in fact sampled members from all around the world, also the band King Cannons which turned out to be, yes, primarily Australian.

Although it doesn’t particularly interest me I believe the racehorse Phar Lap has a similar story of joint national heritage and for God’s sake, who gives a damn where Pavlova was first made – the cake is utter shit.

If you’ll recall some years ago, world renowned actor Russell Crowe was disowned by New Zealand for his outlandish, reckless and according to us, his downright shameful behaviour; yet now he’s become such a massive hit, despite being adopted by Australia all those years ago and New Zealand being glad to see the back of him, now we’re all pissed off because ‘Australia stole him from us’. Seriously, people..? Are our memories so frightfully stunted that we forget what we’ve said immediately after saying it – do we actually think that our pathetic, whinging, snivelling behaviour will earn us the respect of the rest of the world?

Perhaps the ‘typical Kiwi bloke’s’ biggest claim to fame that never was though, is the humble jandal. See, Australia were clever, they changed the name to resemble a seductive piece of lingerie but us idiot New Zealanders with our compulsive ownership and tantrum-like behaviour when someone tries to tell us otherwise…

Huh. It just occurred to me; as a nation we are very much tantamount to an ill-mannered three-year-old.

…Carried on calling that horrendously impractical piece of flaccid footwear ‘jandals’; we even had the audacity to crap on about how very ‘Kiwi’ those horrible floppy rubber flaps of disaster-waiting-to-happen were. Are we stupid? One of them is called a jandal. Come on, people. Jandal. Rhymes with sandal. Jandal.

Japanese sandal, jandal.

No big deal, we pack a shit when other nations lay claim to our heritage, yet appear to have no problem doing the very same thing in the faces of those other countries.

We’re not just superb in the field of shit-packing though, oh no, we chop down anyone who begins to excel in life because seemingly we cannot tolerate the idea that anybody should develop any significant level of self worth, pride or, heaven forbid, self esteem. It’s as if as a people we are essentially against other people’s happiness. We seem to detest the notion that anybody else might be doing well for themselves, I guess, just in case they are doing better than we are.

It’s no secret that New Zealand’s suicide rate is disproportionately high, leading to my assessment that as a nation, I fear we just might have one big collective mental illness.

Humble as.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ham Bull

Photography by Poppy Show-Par

I don’t reckon I could handle seeing even one more news article about Connor bloody Morris, as if his death was some kind of terrible loss to New Zealand society…

As the boyfriend of Millie Elder-Holmes it was likely this man’s bad-boy image that ingratiated him to her in the first place yet ironically, it was seemingly that same ‘bad-boy’ image that wound up getting the guy killed.

…Mr Morris was a common thug. As a member of one of New Zealand’s more notorious motorcycle gangs, realistically, little good would have ever come from the life of this Headhunter.

That’s the thing that winds me up about these so called gangs – Mongrel Mob, Hell’s Angels, Headhunters, Black Power, also to a lesser extent I guess the Harris Gang – generally speaking their members do nothing to benefit society, instead pervading a sense of fear and unrest among those people who are genuinely contributing.

Connor Morris is said to have died trying to protect one of his friends, which all sounds very innocent and one might be forgiven for feeling sympathetic towards the deceased, but here’s the utter bullshit of the situation. This friend he was trying to protect; indeed the entire sense of vitriol fuelling this altercation in the first place, was likely gang-related.

Once a person becomes involved with gang lifestyle violence and discord invariably follow them everywhere. There’s nothing additionally ‘safe’ or ‘secure’ about being part of a gang and in fact the only reason a gang member might require the backing of his gang-mates, is to shelter himself from the deluge of national antipathy brought about by being in a gang.

Also, to those gang members who believe they don’t pose any chance of disharmonious feeling to the country, you might want to consider altering your gang’s name to something a little less negative, intimidating and just plain boorish.

May you Rest in Peace, Connor Morris – something the lives of the people tormented by your gang will never be able to do until the day they die.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Gong Warf Heir

Photography by So-Si E T Drayne